Trusting Me The Way You Do
by Randomcat100
Summary: A series of one-shots. Father/daughter fluff about Valjean's first year with Cosette. T for mentions of child abuse. EDIT: Formerly called "Suddenly It Starts"
1. Job of a Papa

Trusting Me The Way You Do: A Les Misérables Story

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by Randomcat100

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**Hi there, and welcome to my latest fanfiction. This is ****_Trusting Me The Way You Do_****, a series of one-shots. This story is entirely father-daughter fluff about Valjean and his first two years with Cosette. Also, in this story, note that they go directly to the house on Rue Plumet. They don't stay at the convent or at the Gorbeau tenement. I am aware that this is the canon – I have read the book as well as seen the musical both on screen and on stage. I suppose this fic is more musical-based. Enjoy!**

**Also, the cover for this story is a collection of images from the 2012 movie musical. They feature Hugh Jackman as Valjean and Isabelle Allen as Little Cosette. On the top: a still from _Vogue_ magazine of Valjean running through the streets with Little Cosette. Middle: Two screenshots of Valjean with Little Cosette, one of him carrying her, the other of her looking at the doll between _The Well Scene_ and _The Thenardier Waltz of Treachery_. The bottom is another still of Valjean and Little Cosette at the convent.  
**

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Story 01: Job of a Papa

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_January 1, 1824_

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Today was a most special day, the very first of the year. But to Valjean it was even more than that. It was a new leaf, a fresh start for himself and his daughter.

Looking at her now, she looked so very much at peace. The thick blankets tucked protectively around her little body, Catherine resting under the crook of one arm. Her little chest rising and falling in rhythmic sleep. Blond hair splayed out over the pillow. In sleep, the only signs of her former wretched past was the remains of a black eye and a back marred with fading welts. She let out a small sigh before rolling over and resuming sleep. Valjean could scarcely believe she had only been with him for five days, as his heart was already gripped with a fierce, protective, fatherly love.

It was a Thursday today, so Valjean saw little reason to rouse her now. The pair had agreed she would begin her education the first Monday of the month, so there was no reason why she should be awakened now, when she was so at peace. He couldn't help but notice that this was the first night she had not woken in a sweat, her dreamland tormented and obscured with harsh memories, ones that slipped and seeped into her subconscious.

It was nearly noon when she was awake. She appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, her white nightgown floating about her ankles, as Valjean cut the baguette for breakfast. The tiny blonde rubbed sleepily at her eyes as she entered. "Good morning, Papa."

Valjean set down his knife, turned with a smile, and swept her up in a hug. "Oh, yes, indeed. Good morning, _ma petite_ Cosette!"

Cosette offered him one of her smiles, one Valjean was thankful to see more and more often nowadays. She kissed him on the cheek. "Oh, are we having baguette this morning?"

"We are," Valjean confirmed, setting her back down with a nod.

His daughter rocked back and forth on her heels. "How splendid! Shall I set the table, Papa? Shall I clean it?" Already, she was making a move for the small cloth that hung in the corner.

Valjean stayed her hand. "It is not necessary. Now, I shall spread the butter and cheese. However, if you should like to help, would you draw some water from the well in the garden?"

Cosette looked up at him with wide blue eyes before offering a small nod and hurrying for her shawl. Valjean stared after her as she went. Silently, he spread the butter and cheese over the baguette and served it at the table just as Cosette entered the room again.

Breakfast was a silent affair. Valjean allowed Cosette to eat her baguette and some sliced apple. The tiny blonde did not even utter a word, her eyes fixed on the table.

At last, Valjean spoke up. "Cosette, we have spent much of our time here in the house since we arrived in Paris. I suppose you must be growing tired of it, and of not getting out."

Cosette looked up in surprise. "Oh, _no_, Papa. I could never tire of it here, it's all so very lovely. I've my own room, and a sitting room to play and sew in. I've a beautiful doll and I eat three meals a day. And I have you, Papa, for you are so very good to me."

Valjean smiled. "What of books? Once you learn how to do so, I'm certain you'll be wanting to read something for pleasure."

The little blonde blinked. "Read for pleasure, Papa? What sort of books could I read? Might I read the great books of fairy stories with beautiful illustrations? 'Ponine had one of those books and I always wished I could read it."

"You may have any books you wish, my darling," Valjean said soothingly. "Are you done your breakfast?"

An obedient little nod. "Oh, yes, Papa. Shall I go dress myself for our outing, then?"

"If you wish to."

Cosette rose and scurried off to her bedroom. Once she shut the door, she breathed a happy little sigh. She was ever so happy here, living her new life with Papa. On the first day, he had taken her to purchase an array of the most beautiful dresses she could imagine, ones that even 'Ponine would have envied. He did not ask her to do difficult tasks, nor had he struck her once. Papa spoke to her kindly. He kissed her and he tickled her and made her smile and laugh. He fed her good foods. He was her Papa.

From her small wardrobe, Cosette chose a most beautiful white gown, lined with lace at the hem and collar. The cuffs were etched in a pattern of little lavender blossoms. Cosette slipped off her nightgown and pulled the beautiful dress over her head. Pulled on a pair of white stockings. She caught sight of her reflection in the looking-glass and twirled in a circle. The girl in the mirror did not belong in such a beautiful dress, with her fading black eye and underfed, skinny body. Cosette reached for the ivory comb Papa had bought for her and ran it through her blond hair. As she did not yet know how to count past twenty, she estimated the one hundred strokes and inspected the results. A bit better. She placed a small silken bonnet on her head and gave another twirl.

_Perhaps I look a little bit like a lady. Just a bit._

Another twirl, and Cosette desperately wished it to be so. She wished to look like a princess, a princess like in those fairy stories.

She picked Catherine up from the bed, admiring her gorgeous doll. "Do you think I could be a princess, Catherine?"

Her only reply was the blank stare from expertly painted, pale green eyes. With a sigh, Cosette set the doll back down on the bed and twirled one last time before exiting the room. She found Papa there, whistling a merry tune as he put on his coat and boots. "There you are, _ma petite_ Cosette. Are you quite ready to go out?"

"Yes, Papa."

Papa handed her the warm shawl, her hat, her mittens. "You must dress warmly, it is frightfully cold outside. Though I must say you've no need for that bonnet. Why don't you leave it here? Let your hat protect you from the chill."

At once, Cosette untied the strings and placed her bonnet on the table. "Yes, Papa."

Valjean watched as his daughter tied her shawl, tucked her hat over her head, and pulled on her mittens. As she stepped into her boots. The man found it troubling, the way she did so. Her every movement with her shoulders hunched slightly, her head bowed, and her eyes averted, as if afraid to make any contact and to take up as little room as possible.

"You're ready?"

"Yes, Papa."

They went out the door and walked hand-in-hand down Rue Plumet, battling the bitter winds. They might earn the occasional odd stare, but mostly the citizens ignored them: after all, they were a regular little family, nothing especially noticeable. The pair looked neither poor nor rich. The only strange thing about them was that father and daughter did not resemble each other in the least.

Valjean pushed open the door to a small bookshop and nodded at Cosette to follow. After a slight hesitation, the eight-year-old set foot inside the shop.

"May I choose any book I like, Papa?" she asked nervously.

"But of course. Now, why don't we find the children's shelf, _hmm_?"

The children's area was located in the back of the store, two small shelves tucked in the corner with dolls and small wooden figures looking down at any children who might happen by.

Cosette looked at each book, turning it over in her small hands. Many of these books seemed far too difficult for her, and some did not even have illustrations. However, she was overjoyed when she saw a book in particular, lying on the small table. It was thick with a bright red, leather binding, and the cover featured a most lovely illustration of a princess and a knight. She opened the book, and was delighted to find it had small drawings in it, of dragons and knights and princes and princesses. Faeries and mermaids and nymphs. Centaurs. Every creature to be found in mythology was in these pages.

Tucking the book under her arm, Cosette went to find Papa, who was looking at medical books. She tugged at his coat and held the book up, searching for approval.

"Of course you may have this book if you like, _ma petite_," Valjean said. "Now, I believe I shall purchase this book for myself and we'll be on our way."

"Would you read it to me tonight?" the girl inquired hesitantly. "I could read them myself once I learn how. If it isn't too much trouble, Papa…."

"No trouble at all," Valjean reassured his small girl. Taking her hand, they bought both the book of fairy stories and the medical guide. Returning home, Valjean stopped suddenly as he realized he ought to buy tomorrow's bread. He told Cosette they must stop at the bakery quickly, if it was quite all right with her, before returning home.

"Of course it's just fine, Papa," Cosette frowned.

Ten minutes later, Valjean was exiting the bakery laden down with two loaves of baguette and a small roll of cheese, when he noticed Cosette was not following him. Frowning, he turned to find her standing before the window of the baker's. Her fingers and nose pressed against the glass, she stared at the small display, with its beautiful pastries and sweets. Approaching her, he noted the way her eyes lingered on the small chocolate truffles, the _chocolat _petit fours.

"Cosette?"

The startled child turned around, her eyes wide. "Oh – Papa, forgive me."

"Cosette, would you like a chocolate?"

Her head shook vigorously. "No, no, Papa. I was simply…" Her voice trailed off, the blue eyes slid nervously back to the chocolate truffles. "I never had one before," she admitted in a small voice.

Cosette did not want to trouble Papa. She did not know if he was a wealthy man or not, but he had done so much for her already. She feared that if she continued to badger him for silly little things, like these chocolates, he would grow angry and turn her out. Send her back to Montfermeil.

And so she was very surprised when Papa entered the shop and bought two small chocolates. He handed her the small paper bag. "Why don't you eat one now, as we walk, and the other for dessert?"

Cosette's mouth fell open in a gape. "Oh, _may_ I, Papa?"

"You may have anything you wish." Taking her hand, they resumed walking home.

Valjean was thinking of what, precisely, he might make for dinner, when Cosette spoke to him softly. "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Did you mean what you said, when you told me I might have anything I wished?"

Valjean turned onto Rue Plumet. "Of course. Why ever not?"

"Well, I never had anything I wanted in Montfermeil. No toys, no pretty clothes and dresses, no desserts or chocolates. And you didn't buy yourself a chocolate, either. I was just wondering if you're quite certain I shouldn't do anything in exchange."

Valjean pushed open the gate. They passed through the garden, into the house. It was not until Valjean had removed his coat and hung it up that he answered her. "Cosette, we are a family, are we not?"

"Of course, Papa."

"Then that is what Papas are for. It is the job of a Papa to spoil his children. I understand that coming to live with me is a great change for you, but I most certainly do not expect you to do any work. You must live as any child does. You must play and learn. It is not the job of a child to do work."

"Yes, Papa," Cosette murmured. "But Papa, while it is a change, I could not be any happier."


	2. The Calm During The Storm

Story 2: The Calm During The Storm

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**It's so nice to write fluff, it gives you such a warm feeling inside.  
**

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_January 19, 1824_

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It had only been two weeks since her education began, and she was free to play on Saturdays, was only educated in religious studies Sundays. Only two weeks, and already, she was proving to be a bright student.

Cosette, an obedient child both by nature and instinct, was already familiar with all her letters. Her penmanship was still the untidy scrawl of a child, but it was somewhat legible. She could write her own name, she could write Catherine's, and she could write her mother's name, Fantine. But the name she wanted most to be able to write was Valjean's.

Of course, he could not give her his true name. But to Cosette, he was simply her Papa, and she did not question him in the least. Why would she need a given name when he was her Papa? One morning, Valjean had found her slate on the floor by her bed, the chalk worn down to all but a nub. Written all over the small slate was the word _Papa_, over and over again. And his heart had melted.

The second week, by the time Cosette could count to fifty, they began to work at basic sums. This, too, she tackled with a vigor. Out of a desire to learn or to please, Valjean would never know.

There were many things Valjean would never understand or know about his adopted daughter. He would never know just how harshly the Thénardiers had treated her, for he refused to ask. It seemed that old wounds were slowly being mended, and while he knew that she would never be able to truly forget such traumatic times of her life, he hoped she would put it behind her and look to the future. He hoped she would learn to be happy.

There would be times when Valjean was reaching out to her for a hug, when Cosette would flinch back and beg him not to beat her too much. Times when she would forget and call him _monsieur_ instead of Papa. Cosette grew up expecting pain in her life. She grew knowing that someone was always around to harm her. Once, Valjean had caught his little girl huddled in the corner of her bedroom in the wee hours of the night. She was crouched there, her eyes screwed tightly shut, as she whispered over and over again, "Please, Madame, don't hurt me. Please, Madame, don't hurt me."

Valjean gathered her up in his arms, and she screamed before slowly daring to open first one eye, then the other. Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw as she breathed, "Oh, Papa, have you come to take me away? Have you come for me, Papa?"

"I am here, _ma fille precieuse_. I am here. " Valjean had assured her, and comforted by this thought, Cosette had fallen asleep with her head resting against his shoulder.

However, there were other times when Cosette proved to be so happy that Valjean imagined a wide smile forming on the face of Inspector Javert himself, for the sound of that laughter was so wonderful it was more beautiful than any piece by Mr. Beethoven himself.

Besides Catherine and her book of fairy stories, Valjean took the care to buy his daughter any toy she desired. Of course, if she wanted something, she would never dare speak up, but he noted the way she watched other children play when they went on their strolls through the Jadrin du Luxembourg. When they passed the small toy shop on the corner, the way her eyes lingered on certain children's treasures in the windows. A skipping rope, an India-rubber ball. And on days when the weather was cold but fire roared invitingly, the pair would sit together in the parlor. Cosette would sew, knit, or play with Catherine as Valjean whittled small pieces of wood into clever little figurines for play. Now, sitting on her desk, were several small wooden animals. A kitten, a fox, a horse, a puppy.

A clap of thunder woke Valjean with a start. He sat up in bed. The rain pattered mercilessly against the window panes. The flash of lightning. One, two, three seconds later and the thunder boomed again, boasting its authority.

Another sound. This one a faint cry of "Papa!" Cosette appeared in the doorway, Catherine hugged tightly to her chest. The child ran in and gripped in terror at the front of his nightshirt. "Oh, _Papa_!"

Then her eyes grew wide as she stumbled backwards, nearly dropping Catherine. "Monsieur … forgive me, Monsieur, I-I did not mean t-to wake you. The storm frightened me, but Monsieur … I … I…" She sounded on the verge of tears. "Don't hit me like Madame does, please, Monsieur! Forgive me!" She shrank into a corner, whimpering.

"Cosette, Cosette…" Valjean coaxed. He climbed out of his bed and reached for her. She yelped and flinched back.

"Don't beat me, Monsieur, please don't. I shan't awaken you again, I shan't bother you…"

"My girl…" Valjean began. He took a lock of her blond hair between his fingers. Stroked her face gently, kissing away the tears that threatened. "_Mon amour_, I would never beat you. You know that, Pet. The storm had already roused Papa, you did not wake me. And if you had, I would not have been cross."

Cosette gulped. "The storm had woken you?"

"Yes, it had. There's no need for tears, darling." Again, he reached for her, and this time she set Catherine gently down before throwing her arms around his neck and burying her nose in his shoulder.

"That's my girl. Now, you said the storm frightened you?"

Cosette sniffled. "Yes, Papa. I was sleeping and the thunder woke me. I told myself it would stop soon, but when it did I grew frightened and I came to you." Again, she buried her nose in his shoulder. Small voice muffled, she continued: "Papa, why is the thunder so loud?"

Valjean chuckled slightly and tucked the stray lock behind her ear. "That, _mon amour_, is a question I cannot answer."

"But you know everything, Papa!"

Again, he couldn't help but chuckle at her childish whimsy. "I know very much," he teased. "But not _everything._" He tweaked her nose and she smiled faintly. "Now, why don't we go light the fire and sit in the parlor for a while?"

At once, she scrambled to her feet, picking up Catherine. "Yes, Papa!" She began to make her way towards the sitting room.

"Well, wait just a moment," Valjean called gently. Cosette immediately paused and turned to look at him. Valjean scooped her up and ran through the house. Cosette giggled slightly; she liked these games. After five minutes, however, Valjean was worn out and he deposited the girl onto the settee.

"Shall I light the fire, then?" asked Valjean. "Would you like that?"

"Please. That would be lovely, Papa."

Another minute or so and a fire roared invitingly in the hearth, and a pot of tea was being brewed. Valjean sat next to Cosette under a spare woolen blanket. "Now, is there anything else you'd like, Pet?"

Cosette squirmed, shook her head. She averted her eyes, as if finding sudden fascination with her small hands, folded neatly on top of the blanket.

"Come now, tell Papa," he encouraged. He stroked her hair. "Won't you tell me what it is you'd like?"

Again Cosette squirmed. She fiddled with Catherine's red velvet crêpe hat. "I'm sure I don't want to bother you, Papa," she mumbled at last. "It's quite late, after all. You must be tired."

Valjean glanced at the corridor leading into the kitchen. "You must tell me what it is. I'm not terribly tired. But if you are, why don't you go to bed after the tea?"

"Oh no, _I'm_ not tired. But I was wondering if…"

"If?" Valjean encouraged her.

Cosette looked up at him hopefully. "I was wondering if perhaps we might read a story from my book. The lighting isn't very good, but I suppose I could light some candles." Her eyes flickered towards the mantle, where Bishop Myriel's treasured silver candlesticks sat proudly.

"A splendid idea!" Valjean said enthusiastically. "Why don't you fetch the book whilst I pour the tea and light those candles?"

"Of course, Papa." Cosette climbed off the settee and started for her bedroom. In the doorway, she paused. "Papa?"

"Yes, _mon trésor_?"

"What candlesticks shall we be using? Might we use those?" She pointed at the silver candlesticks. "They're lovely," she ventured. "But you haven't lit them before."

Valjean shook his head. "No, Pet. Those are very special candlesticks, given to Papa years ago by a very kind man. We only light these on the most special occasions, or when we are saying our prayers to the Lord."

"Oh," Cosette allowed. "I see, Papa. I'll be fetching the book."

"Yes, thank you, dear."

As Cosette slipped into her bedroom, the only lighting coming from the occasional flash of lightning, she reflected on Papa's words. _Thank you, dear._ The Thénardiers never thanked her for anything she did, not ever. But whenever she preformed a small duty that was asked of her, Papa would always thank her. She liked that about Papa.

He never gave her difficult tasks, either, she thought as she carried the book from her room. With the Thénardiers, she was ordered to do all sorts of arduous tasks. And when she fetched water from the well, she suffered the most. The large wooden bucket she used was far too heavy even when it was empty, and its leather handle always bit into her hands and made them burn. One time, the handle had snapped and the water had spilled. Cosette had tried to carry the bucket by its base but it was always too heavy and she could not do it. Resigned, she had brought the bucket back empty, trembling at the mere thought of Madame's wrath. Madame had beaten her and thrown her out in the snow for the night, calling her a scoundrel, a vandal, a good-for-nothing.

Here with Papa, the bucket was small and light. The well was located in the garden and so she never had to carry it a long way. She _liked_ living with Papa. Every day was a happy one. Cosette did not want Papa to be cross with her, so she did her very best to do as he asked every time.

"Here is the book, Papa," she chirped, offering it to him.

Valjean kissed her on the crown of the head. "Thank you, _ma fille_. Now, why don't you choose a nice story to read?"

By the bright candlelight, Cosette thumbed through her thick book, looking for an illustration that peaked her interest. One caught her attention. It featured a little boy sitting on the knee of a gentleman by a fire in the background, with two small pixies crouched in the foreground, mischievous grins on their faces. Seeing the little boy and the gentleman reminded Cosette of her and Papa. Hesitantly, she offered him the book. "This one, if you please."

"Oh, this sounds like a lovely tale. Here, Pet. Lie under the blankets with your tea. Let us take a carriage away."

Cosette frowned as she snuggled down, steaming mug warming her small hands. "Take a carriage, Papa? Wherever are we going?"

Valjean smiled mysteriously. "To the place where all dreams come true, to the realm of Imagination."

His little girl's eyes stretched wide. "The realm of Imagination? Is there such a place?"

"But of course. All little children go there, in dreams and in stories."

Fascinated, Cosette sat up. Tea forgotten. "Really, Papa? But what shall we find there?"

"I suppose whatever this story tells. We might find these two pixies. And all sorts of other magical creatures?"

"What creatures, Papa? Are there dragons?"

Valjean laughed and tickled her under the chin. "Oh, yes. But you needn't be afraid, _petite_. Papa will protect you from the dragons."

Cosette shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm not afraid of those dragons. They shan't harm me. But this place, this realm of Imagination. I suppose it sounds rather like my castle on a cloud, don't you find?"

It took Valjean a moment to understand what she meant, but then he recalled the little tune she'd been singing the fateful night in the woods. He remembered her singing of some kind of castle and a cloud and a lady who loved her. "Yes," he agreed with a smile. "I suppose it _is_ rather like your castle on a cloud, _mon amour_."

Cosette's face lit up. "Oh, how splendid! Do you suppose I might find my Maman there?"

A lump formed in his throat. "I … I don't know. Your Maman is in Heaven, darling."

"Yes," Cosette said hesitantly. "But if dreams come true, then my Maman shall be there. It's what I truly wanted, you see. I barely remember her, but every day I wished she would come."

Valjean fought the threat of tears. "Why don't we find those pixies, then?" he offered, distracting himself from his own grief and tears.

Cosette sat up perkily. "Oh – yes. Let's."

She leaned against his shoulder and sipped at her tea, which was already turning cold. And as Valjean read, she found herself in that realm of Imagination. She found her pixies and the dragons there. And while Cosette did not realize it as she ran barefoot through a beautiful flower garden, her Maman, her lady all in white, was there too, smiling and looking on.


	3. Six and Seven

Story 3: Six and Seven

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**Author's Note: This one is shorter than the others. The Jimmy is sad. The Jimmy doesn't like short chapters. (Now, who got that reference?)**

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_February 5, 1824_

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By the time February came, Cosette and Valjean's life was almost perfectly peaceful. Their daily routine was repetitive and plain, but happy, for little Cosette brought joy with every move she made.

Every morning, the two would rise. Cosette would draw water as Valjean prepared breakfast. They would eat together before beginning the child's studies. When she finished all her little assignments, she was free to play as she pleased. They would go for strolls in the Jardin du Luxembourg and along the Seine when the weather was kind. Before bed, Valjean would tell Cosette to say her prayers, and each night, she would obey without hesitation, kneeling by her bedside, small hands clasped together, head bowed.

Nothing thrilled Cosette more than Saturday mornings, when Papa would allow her to sleep in late as she pleased. Breakfast would include pain au chocolat, a delicacy she had not been allowed the luxury even to taste in Montfermeil. Papa would brew fresh tea of herbs with the most wonderful aromas. Jasmine, mint, and on one glorious occasion, dried rose leaves.

However, Cosette couldn't help but notice that Papa sometimes acted rather odd. When they were in public, Papa would hide his head with a hat and would often take sudden shortcuts through alleyways. He never stopped to chat with the neighbors or the bakers or the vendors. Once a policeman had been asking the passersby about an escaped convict and Papa had quickly taken Cosette by the hand and led her away. It confused the child, and yet, she did not question him once. To her eight-year-old mind, her Papa was a saint who could do no wrong.

One thing Cosette loved to do with Papa was go to Mass. The services were boring most of the time, but she enjoyed walking, being with Papa, being with someone who she was slowly coming to understand meant her no harm. For he was always there to protect her.

Cosette also loved to go to the baker's in the mornings. The warm, gentle aroma of freshly baked bread was ever so inviting, and sometimes Papa would buy her treats she had tasted only in her dreams, sweets and pastries she had seen 'Ponine and 'Zelma eat, but she had only smelled them. Apricot clafouti with sugared almonds in it. Breton butter tarts. Choû crème. Delicacy after delicacy. The baker and his wife were very kind, since Cosette and Valjean had become regulars.

But Cosette had difficulty understanding, at times, just why she was here with her Papa, what she done to deserve such a lovely existence. She understood that her Mama had gone to be with God. Valjean had explained this to her very gently, and slowly, she came to terms with this harsh fact, and what exactly it meant to have gone to be with God. Sometimes, she understood this. Other times, she did not. To her, the idea of a Heaven was strange and foreign. God seemed something a bit too large to grasp, and she supposed this was why man had written the Bible, why so many attended Mass on Sundays. To feel secure and to pretend to understand something no one truly did.

Cosette never shared these thoughts with Papa.

But one day, while preparing for her studies, her thoughts wandered to her Mama. She realized, suddenly, just how little she knew of her mother.

_One day, I shall ask Papa._

Cosette turned her back to the mirror, running the ivory comb through her hair. One, two, three. Twenty. Forty. Fifty. One hundred. She turned now to inspect her work and drew in a sharp breath. Her hair was neat and tidy, as always. But she thought she looked almost pretty. Excited, she placed her bonnet on her head, turned from side to side. She was almost fond of the girl in the mirror.

Cosette remembered, vaguely, her Mama stroking her hair and whispering to her, "_my beautiful little girl._"

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As he always did, Valjean greeted his daughter with a kiss on the cheek and a "Good morning, Pet!"

Cosette smiled broadly at him. "Good morning, Papa."

"You slept well, my dear?"

"I did."

Valjean noticed how quiet she was – even more so than usual. She picked at her baguette, at the apples. When he asked her what was wrong, she quickly shook her head. "Oh, nothing, Papa," she said hurriedly. "I'm not terribly hungry this morning …. I believe I shan't finish." She looked up nervously. "Might I?"

Valjean nodded. "Yes, of course. But whatever is the matter, dear? Are you ill?"

Cosette hopped from her seat and carried her dish to the kitchen. "I don't think I am. I don't feel ill at all."

"No headache? No stomachache?" Valjean fretted. "Are you tired?"

Cosette laughed. She launched herself into his arms, and he laughed as well, holding her close. "I am quite fine, Papa!" she smiled. "Perfectly fine. I'm just not terribly hungry, that's all."

"Very well. Would you like to begin your studies?" Valjean lowered her down.

"Yes, Papa!" she said immediately. She picked up her skirts. "Shall I fetch my slate?" Before he could answer, she was hurrying off towards her bedroom.

Valjean stared after her. She was behaving oddly, and it bothered him. But before he could ponder further, his little girl was back, her slate and box of chalk clutched tightly to her chest. She sat down at the table and looked up at him hopefully. "What will we be doing today, Papa? Will I study my letters or my sums?"

Valjean shook his head. No, here was Cosette. His Cosette, always earnest and always perky in the name of learning. She'd been quiet at breakfast, but wasn't she always a quiet child? She only meant to obey him, for she loved to do as he bid her. And here she was now. Sitting at the table, blue eyes and small face framed by long blonde hair, smiling. Valjean supposed he must be out of sorts thing morning. He sat down at the table next to her. "Your sums could use a bit of work, I suppose," he said slowly.

"Of course, Papa."

She waited patiently as he took a piece of chalk and wrote out a list of problems for her. And when he was finished, she took the chalk from him and worked her way through the twenty problems in front of her.

Four plus four. Three plus two. Six plus one. Oh, a hard one – six plus seven.

Cosette stared at the final problem. Six plus seven make …plus seven make…Cosette tried to count on her fingers, but alas, she did not have so many fingers. She only had ten, and she knew it had to be more than ten. Because six plus four made ten, and four was a greater number than seven.

Perhaps this was a subtraction question, then? Papa had mentioned something called subtraction. Hopefully, she attempted this. But that made no sense, because that gave her a number less than zero, and there were no such numbers less than zero.

Cosette remembered something Papa had said to her long ago, when they were only just beginning her sums. The order of which the numbers doesn't matter in addition.

She tried it the other way around. Seven minus six. There, she had it! The answer was one.

"I'm finished, Papa!" she chirped. She slid the slate over to him.

Valjean skimmed the slate. Each answer he confirmed with a nod, and Cosette's young heart leapt with some kind of unknown joy. But at the last problem he frowned and handed the slate back. "Ma petite, this isn't right."

Cosette's eyes widened. "Oh," she said faintly. "It…it isn't?"

"No," said Valjean. "Not at all. Six plus seven is thirteen."

Cosette shrank back. "I'm sorry, Papa."

"There is nothing to be sorry for, darling," Valjean chuckled. "Come here."

She crawled into his lap and he held her gently. She looked up at him with wide, nervous eyes. "But Papa, I answered the question incorrectly. I've been naughty." She sounded terrified.

Valjean turned her so she had to look at him. "Sweetness, you made a small error. It's hardly something to worry about. It was a difficult question."

Cosette squirmed. "But …. I made a mistake. A silly mistake. I can't read well, I can't do sums …. " She looked horrified. "Oh, I am a silly fool. An idiot. A degenerate. A – " She was breathing heavily, her eyes wide. Valjean drew her closer, stroking her hair.

"Hush, hush. That's enough now, my sweet. You are most certainly not an idiot. You're one of the brightest children of your age I've met."

"But I made a silly error. A stupid error. I can't do sums at all. The numbers will get bigger and I shan't be able to do those." She sighed. "'Ponine would have been able to add six and seven."

"'Ponine was taught. You weren't." Valjean reminded her.

This seemed to put the eight-year-old at ease for a moment. She closed her eyes, resting against his shoulder. Then, "Papa?"

"Yes, Sugar?"

Cosette squirmed on his lap. "Papa, what was my Mama like?"

Valjean's breath caught. His hands began to shake with the ghost of guilt. He lowered Cosette from his lap and she looked up at him expectantly. "Papa? Are you quite all right?"

Valjean stood. His knees shook so, and he had to grip the back of his chair to steady himself. At last, he sat back down. "Your Mama…"

She leaned forwards excitedly. "What was she like, Papa?"

Valjean swallowed. "Well. Her name was Fantine. She was young, only twenty-six."

"Fantine," Cosette repeated. The name sounded sweet and foreign on her tongue. "Fantine." She smiled. "You taught me to write it. I've never said it before."

Valjean nodded. "She was very kind. She was …. gentle. And she loved you so very much. She…she was a martyr of sorts."

"A martyr," Cosette repeated. "Papa, what is a martyr?"

Valjean blinked; his vision had suddenly turned foggy. "You will understand one day."

"But I should like to know now. Oh, you must tell me!"

At last, Valjean gave in. "A martyr is one who was like a saint." He knew this didn't quite define the term, but Fantine had been a martyr and she had been a saint. And so it fit.


	4. Teaching

Story 4: Teaching

February 28, 1824

_Disclaimer: This chapter is loosely inspired by "In Sickness and in Health" by rebecca-in-blue. I forgot to put this up before and I apologize. Not the whole thing, just the scene with Cosette throwing up and the bit with the doctor._

**OoO**

By the time February was coming to an end, Valjean had made his daughter a dozen little wooden animals. He once made her a horse and a rider, which she seemed to love the most. He often saw Cosette making the horse and rider gallop about in her bedroom, humming and smiling, content.

The weather was growing better and last week, on an especially gentle day, Cosette and Valjean had been able to strip their coats and shawls. Cosette had been delighted; as she had been able to show off her beautiful dress. The one she'd worn that day had been a particular favorite of hers, a deep orange thing with a high, frilled collar and covered in a pattern of small white rose buds. As they'd walked, hand in hand, Catherine tucked securely under one arm, Cosette had asked him hopefully, "Do I look to be a princess, Papa?" And Valjean had told her, "Yes, of course, my Pet, you always do."

Cosette had positively beamed, especially when the baker's wife had told her fondly, "My girl, you look very well in that dress."

"Thank you, Madame," Cosette had whispered shyly.

The baker's wife had grinned. "My husband has made a new sort of bread, with little raisins in it. Would you like to try it?"

"A simple loaf of white baguette would suffice, thank you," Valjean had told her, reaching into his wallet.

"Oh, no, just a small piece to taste. It won't cost you a _centime_," the baker's wife had chuckled, passing a small chunk of the new bread to Cosette. "There you are, child. For looking like such a lady."

And Cosette positively glowed.

One Saturday morning however, Cosette did not wake by noon. She had long since gotten into the habit of sleeping late on Saturdays, but never quite this late. Valjean knocked on her bedroom door. "Cosette?" he called. "Cosette, my Pet, whatever is the matter? Why won't you get up?"

When there was no answer, his heart took a leap. Valjean banged furiously at the door. "Cosette?" he cried, panicked.

Never before had Valjean been so relieved as to when he heard his small daughter call out meekly from behind the door, "Papa?"

"Cosette?" he called, relieved. "Might I come in? Are you presentable?"

"Yes, Papa."

When he opened the door, he saw her. Lying in bed, her blond hair splayed out behind her on the pillow, the halo of an angel. A very pale-looking angel. There were dark circles under her eyes as she lay there, looking up at him with her bright blue eyes. Blue eyes that, at the moment , were shining with fever.

"Cosette?" Valjean asked. The panic rose in his chest again as he hurried to her bedside. He pressed his hand against her forehead. It was warm.

"I don't feel very well," she murmured. She closed her eyes. "My stomach hurts. My head, too. I've a dreadful headache."

Valjean couldn't help but image Fantine, lying emaciated on that hospital bed. He could still see her brown eyes shiny with fever, and her beautiful dark hair shorn off. Fear gripped at his chest, his throat, his heart. "I'll call for the doctor," Valjean said softly. He ran a finger down her pale cheek. "Stay here, _ma petite_. I'll go for the doctor."

"Papa, am I ill?" she asked softly, her eyes flickering open.

"I certainly hope not," said Valjean. "Now, my dear. Stay in this bed. Sleep more, if you are tired. I will be out to fetch the doctor, and then I shall return."

"Yes, Papa."

She watched him as he left her bedroom. He hurried to put on his waistcoat and boots and nearly ripped out the door of the apartment. However, he was relieved to find the landlord going out later than he normally did. Valjean stopped him.

"Monsieur?"

The landlord regarded him with a nod. "Good morning, m'sieur. How are you this morning?"

"I am fine, but my daughter, I'm afraid, is not feeling very well. Would you be so kind as to send for a doctor on your way to work? I'd go myself, but I hate to leave her alone." Valjean fumbled in his pocket. "Here," he said, offering a small piece of five _sous_.

The landlord clucked his tongue and pushed Valjean's hand away. "There now, _monsieur_. It's hardly a difficult task. Of course I shall send for a doctor. The poor dear, I do hope it isn't serious."

"Thank you," Valjean gasped. As the landlord continued out the door, Valjean sprinted back up the stairs and into the apartment. "Cosette, darling?"

He opened the door to find her leaning over the edge of her bed, sweating. The room smelled foul and there were flecks of vomit in her hair and on the front of her woolen nightdress. A pool of the stuff lay on the floor.

Cosette's head shot up and tears filled her eyes. "Oh … forgive me, Papa. I'm sorry! I'll clean it up, I … I … "

"No, no," Valjean cooed. He stepped carefully over the vomit and held her close. "Papa isn't angry. Now, let's get you cleaned up, all right, sweetness?"

Cosette sniffled. "All right, Papa. Thank you."

He drew some water and heated it slightly by the fire. Then he poured it into the washtub and Cosette climbed in. He helped her to wash the vomit from her hair and mouth, then he fetched her a new nightgown. He dried her hair with a soft towel and sent her back to bed with a kiss.

The doctor came in just as Valjean had finished cleaning up the vomit from her floor as she slept.

"Are you Monsieur Durand?"

Valjean nodded. "I … yes. I am."

"And you have reason to believe your daughter is ill?"

"Yes. I found her looking pale this morning. Her forehead was warm and her eyes were feverish. She vomited about fifteen minutes ago and I cleaned it up." Valjean found he was struggling not to take the doctor by the shoulders and cry, 'Tell me what is the matter with her!' Instead, he stepped away from the door. "Won't you come in?"

The doctor set down his briefcase. "Would you like to fetch your daughter?"

"Pardon? Oh – yes. Yes, of course." Valjean hurried into her bedroom. He gave Cosette's shoulder a gentle shake. "Cosette? Cosette, my precious, the doctor is here."

The doctor was very kind to Cosette, was gentle with her, for apparently he specialized with children. Valjean made a mental note to thank the landlord once again for finding a children's doctor. He checked Cosette's pulse, took her temperature. He looked down her throat, which made Cosette giggle, and he looked into her ears. Meanwhile, he asked Cosette a series of questions.

"How old are you, child?"

"I'm eight, monsieur."

"I see."

Other questions were directed to Valjean. Many were about her medical history, to which Valjean could only shake his head. He sensed that the doctor was looking at him rather oddly until, at last, he stepped away from Cosette.

"It doesn't seem to be anything more than a light fever. Give her bed rest and plenty to drink, she should be fine by next week."

Valjean thanked and paid the doctor. He was grateful when the kindly, balding man left, for he feared that he was making Cosette a bit nervous. He didn't like the way she looked at him. He had long since figured out she didn't normally take kindly to strangers, much less one who touched her in any way. Valjean supposed she feared they might hurt her in some way.

"All right, then, sweetness, back to bed with you. Are you hungry? I'll make you some soup."

He tucked Cosette under the blankets and set Catherine down with her. "I'm not terribly hungry, Papa," Cosette murmured. "I'm just a bit tired."

"Some tea, perhaps? That nice jasmine you like so much? Oh, do have something, Pet. You must have something."

Cosette nodded slowly. "Yes … some tea would be wonderful. Thank you, Papa."

Valjean fixed her a bowl of soup anyhow, and he brought it to her on a wooden tray. Cosette smiled shakily and sat up. She leaned back against the pillows and took the bowl of soup in her small hands. She brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. "Mm, it smells delicious."

Valjean pecked her on the cheek. "Yes, Cosette. And it tastes just as good. Here is your spoon."

He sat with her as she had her soup in small sips. It took her a long time, but when the bowl was empty at last, Valjean took it from her and allowed her to sleep. It was eight o'clock when she called to him softly, "Papa?"

He hurried to her bedside. "Cosette, _ma fille precieuse_? Are you quite all right?"

She shook her head at him. "Of course. I'm quite all right, Papa, perfectly fine. I feel much better. I was only wondering…" She ducked her head, little face hidden by long blonde hair.

Valjean took her chin and lifted it, looking her in the eye. "Whatever is it, Cosette? You can tell Papa."

She bit her lip. "Oh, I'm sure I don't want to bother you. You must want to tend to your nightly reading, and…"

"Silly Cosette," he teased her. "My first concern is you. Whatever is it you'd like?"

She squirmed, fidgeting with the collar of her nightdress until he took her hands and pushed them away. At last, she whispered in his ear, as if it was a secret to be shared just between the two of them: "Would you stay with me and play with the wooden animals?"

Valjean nodded. "But of course. I'd love to play with the wooden animals with you, my love." He rose, gathering the toys from her desk. He set them down. "Right, then. Let's play." Valjean imagined that the girl might like to play with her horse and rider, so he took the kitten instead. "Yes, let's play…"

He stared at the kitten in his hand, dwarfed by his large fingers. His mind wandered back to his childhood. Valjean had grown up poor, but he had played as any child had. He recalled climbing trees. He recalled Blind Man's Bluff. He recalled swimming in the lake, spying on the neighbors, and running wild in the streets. He even recalled having contests with the neighborhood boys, to see who could pee the furthest. He did not recall ever playing with wooden animals.

His sister, Jeanne. She'd had an old rag doll, but no wooden animals. And Valjean did not fully understand just _how_ Jeanne had played with her rag doll, nor, for that matter, how Cosette played with Catherine.

Cosette was staring up at him expectantly. "How…exactly, do I play with the wooden animals?" Valjean asked hesitantly.

Cosette shook her head. "Oh, Papa, you just _play_ with them. Like this." She took the kitten and began a strange, foreign, complicated procedure that involved a great deal of moving the animals about and quite a bit of meowing and neighing. Valjean frowned at his little daughter as she went about "playing."

At last, she looked up. "You see, Papa? It's quite simple."

Valjean shook his head. "I don't quite understand," he said slowly.

Cosette's eyes widened. "Oh no, have I done it wrong?"

Valjean chuckled. "My dearest child, you have done it perfectly well. I suppose it is a game for little girls and not for Papas."

Cosette nodded. "All right. I see."

Valjean stroked her hair gently. "Now, why don't you get some rest? That way you might feel better tomorrow."

"For Mass?" Cosette asked innocently. "I know how very important that is to you. I'm sure I don't want to miss it!"

Valjean shook his head. "Oh no. You mustn't go out tomorrow, _mon trésor_. No, you must stay here and rest all day."

"But…" Cosette objected. "But Papa. Mass. Will you be leaving me here alone?" Her small hand tightened around his larger one. "I'm afraid of being alone. What if Madame comes to find me?"

Valjean kissed her gently on the forehead. "No, no. Madame won't come find you. She is far away, she shan't ever see her again. And my Pet, I wouldn't leave you alone. I shall stay here with you."

Her mouth fell open. "You would miss Mass?"

Valjean nodded. "I must stay here with you. For you are much more important than missing one little service. I would never leave you alone, darling. Now, why don't you get some sleep?"

Cosette nodded and rubbed her eyes sleepily. "Yes, Papa." She rolled over and shut her eyes. "I love you."

Valjean picked the two wooden animals up, placing them on the desk. He smiled and nodded. "Yes, Cosette. I love you very much."

And he rose, blowing out the candle and shutting the door on his way out, leaving Cosette to dream of sweet things and of the very best pain au chocolat in the world. And those strange, strange games of hers.


	5. Sugar Dreams

Story 5: Sugar Dreams

**0o0**

_March 6, 1824_

It did not take Cosette terribly long to recover from her bout of flu, and a week later, she was in full health again. She was the same quiet but bubbly little girl who loved to play with her dolls and toys.

The weather was warm enough now for her to play with the skipping rope and India-rubber ball outside. Skipping was a game that delighted the eight year old girl, even if she often tripped and stumbled on the rope. Once, during one of their strolls in the park, Cosette saw three little girls playing with a very big skipping rope, one jumping in the middle and two turning it. Cosette had stared, fascinated, until she looked up at Valjean and asked him, "Papa, why is the rope so _long_?"

"It is a long rope for three little girls," Valjean had explained to her. "But since you are only one little girl, you've a shorter rope. It would be difficult for you to jump alone with such a long one by yourself, no?"

Cosette had nodded. "Of course." As they began to walk on, she admitted, "Papa, I should like to have friends to jump rope with. I should like to go to school – _real_ school, like the children in my fairy stories."

Valjean froze. He'd taken his tiny blonde daughter by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. She'd shrunken back slightly but he did not notice. "Cosette, darling. You have a lovely education here at home with Papa, do you not?"

She had nodded. "Oh, yes, Papa," she'd trilled, and that was the end of the matter. Never again did Cosette ask her Papa to go to school, never again did she tell him she wanted friends to play with. Happy as she was, and her life was heaven in comparison to her years in Montfermeil, she was also hopelessly lonely. It was a different kind of loneliness, she supposed over dinner that night, as she cut her potatoes and meat, than experienced in Montfermeil. That had been a terrifying, choking feeling that she had no one in the world, not a soul. This was different. She had her Papa but no children like her to play with. At the very least in Montfermeil there had been 'Ponine. Condescending and hateful though she was, just _watching_ 'Ponine play with 'Zelma was peaceful. Sometimes Cosette would imagine herself by their side, rocking the dolls and dressing the cat and braiding hair.

Little did either of the dubbed "Durand" pair know that it would be nine years before Cosette ever mentioned having another party in their lives, one besides herself and Valjean.

At present, she was but eight years old, and she could almost forget her loneliness when Papa was around.

**0o0**

In Paris, there was a great sweets shop opening. All over the city there were posters advertising it. It had opened on the first of March, and it was on the corner of Rue de Charonne and Rue Crozatier. It was nowhere near Rue Plumet, where Valjean and Cosette lived, but the more Valjean heard of the sweet shop the more he longed to take his daughter there.

Valjean knocked on the door of Cosette's bedroom. When there was no answer, he called, "Are you asleep, darling?" And when there was still no answer he opened the door a crack to see her snuggled in her blankets, her small head resting on the pillow, eyes closed and chest rising and falling in sleep.

Valjean pulled over a chair and sat by her bed, waiting for her to awake. He adjusted Catherine, whose crêpe hat was slipping off, and he tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. Cosette did not even stir. Over the past two months she had grown into a much more restful child. Valjean remembered a time not long ago when the slightest movement or sound would make her jump from her bed in a tangle of linen bedsheets and weary, strangled cries of, "Yes, yes, Madame, I'm coming!"

But now there was only the small, restful little girl who had since won his heart. But, Valjean considered, he supposed she had won his heart well before she knew that she was Cosette, Fantine's daughter. Traveling through the woods that fateful Christmas night, he had been thinking only of Cosette, but when he heard the small, terrified voice of a little girl singing, he had known he ought to help the poor soul. And when he had discovered she was Cosette, that this little creature dressed in rags was Cosette, his heart had melted with affection.

Valjean had not expected her to be such a wretched child. He had not imagined, not even considered, that the Thenardiers might have abused her. He'd been imagining a sweet, small girl in a humble, but not ragged dress. He had imagined walking into the inn and seeing three little girls – two being the Thenardier daughters Fantine mentioned, the other being Cosette – seated together by a warm fire playing with dolls. He would introduce himself and Cosette would be confused, frightened even, and would want to stay with the Thenardiers.

He did not know whether or not he should be thankful. Valjean supposed that it would have been much harder for him, had this been the scenario to take place. The Thenardiers would still have tried to take as much money from him as possible and Cosette would not have wanted to join him. But when he thought of it, Valjean wished that this _had_ been the case. After all, was it not better for him to suffer a little bit and Cosette to have always lived happily?

He was distracted from his odd fantasies as Cosette began to stir. She yawned heavily and reached out to her Papa. "Good morning!"

Valjean kissed her on the crown of the head. "Good morning, my dear Cosette. And how do you feel?"

"Oh," said Cosette, climbing out of bed. She began to straighten her blankets. "Oh, I feel quite well. Perfect, actually. What shall we be doing today, Papa? Might we go for a walk in the park or stop in at the bakery?"

Valjean stood, helping her to make her bed. He swept Catherine out of the way and onto the small desk. "I've quite an … _exciting_ plan for the day."

Cosette looked up with wide, eager eyes. "Really? Oh, what is it? You must tell me before I die of curiosity?" She pretended to faint onto the bed and shrieked with delight when Valjean tickled her under the chin.

"Patience, sugar," Valjean chided her gently. He took her by the hands, pulled her up, spinning her in a circle. "It's a _surprise_."

"Oh," said Cosette, nodding in understanding. "Oh, one of those. Well, shall I dress myself so we might be on our way?"

"Yes," agreed Valjean. "I shall prepare breakfast, then."

"And I shall draw water," chirped Cosette. She knew that there was no reason for her to say this – after all, it had just become a habit over these past two months – but she enjoyed the peaceful repetitiveness of it all.

Papa kissed her on the cheek and Cosette giggled before shooing him out of her room. When the door was shut she opened her wardrobe and selected the dress Papa had bought for her yesterday. She hadn't even asked for it, but she'd glanced at it in the window of the shop and Papa had asked her, "Do you want the dress, Cosette?" Cosette had not answered him but Papa had gone in and bought it for her anyhow. It was amongst one of the many luxuries she had come to own and she even put on the soft pink bonnet that had caught her fancy one day long ago.

Cosette stuck her head out the window to feel the air. It was rather warm, no need for her shawl. She hummed to herself as she went outside, drawing the day's water. There was breakfast and a nice bath and then she and Papa were walking down the street.

Valjean held his daughter's hand as she skipped cheerfully alongside him. Once in a while, she would ask him, "So where_ are_ we going, Papa?" And Valjean would shake his head and wink, reminding her it was a surprise.

Valjean hailed a cab. Cosette was squirming with excitement. "We're taking a carriage? Oh, I've always wanted to ride in one! I haven't done so for years."

Valjean paid the driver, shutting the door. He gave her a little tweak on the nose. "You rode in a carriage when we came to Paris, darling."

"Yes," Cosette agreed, crawling over to press her nose against the window. "But I was asleep."

"That's true," Valjean agreed. He put his arm around her, pulling her into a sort of hug. "Enjoy the view, sweetness. Enjoy this ride."

Cosette gave a delighted little bounce in her seat as the carriage rattled along. "Oh, Papa! Will we really be taking all the way to…wherever we might be going?"

Valjean nodded. "The _entire_ way."

"Is it far? I should like to ride like this forever. Look, Papa, look! Did you see that? I saw a woman with four dogs! _Four!_ Oh, this is absolutely magnificent!" She sighed and sat back in her seat. "Papa, is it terribly far?"

"It is somewhat far," he responded. "And better yet, we shall take the carriage on the way back home too."

Cosette let out a small gasp of delight. "Oh, really? Shall we?" She threw her arms around his neck, burying her nose in his shoulder. "Oh, _thank_ you, Papa!"

Valjean chuckled and kissed her on the forehead. "My Pet. We may take a carriage whenever you wish, wherever we are going. Within reason, of course."

Without turning from the window, Cosette repeated skeptically, "Within reason?"

"Well, yes. Suppose we were going to the baker's. Surely we wouldn't take a carriage to travel such a short distance."

"Silly Papa, of course not. We must walk to the baker's. Why, I'm sure if we went to hail a carriage and asked the driver to take us to the baker's at the corner he wouldn't even take us. Besides, I like walking with you." Cosette gave him a half-smile. "Now, look out the window with me, Papa! Oh … oh! Did you see that? Did you?"

The rest of the ride passed in a similar fashion. There would be silence until Cosette would give a little cry of pure, childish joy and point at this or that. "Papa, did you see that stall with all the fruits?" "Papa, did you see that? Did you see all those children playing in the streets?" "Oh, did you see that woman? Papa, did you see her? She had a snake around her neck!"

At the end of the ride, Cosette was giddy. "Thank you, Papa! That was _so_ very lovely," she sighed as he picked her up and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Valjean grinned at his little daughter. "And we shall take a carriage ride back home too. It's much too far to walk, after all."

Carrying her, they walked on until coming across the sweets shop. As they approached out, Cosette cried out, "Oh! We're going to the sweets shop, aren't we, Papa? I was hoping you might take me someday!"

Valjean looked at her in surprise. "Then why, _ma petite Cosette_, did you not tell me you wanted to go? You know I would have taken you, had you asked."

Cosette shrugged. "I didn't want to badger you, Papa. It was such a silly, small request, after all, and we'd be going quite far. What is the shop called, Papa?" She read the sign as they crossed the street towards it. "_Rêves de … de … _" She shook her head and pointed at the last word. "Papa, what does that word say? I cannot read it."

"_Sucre_," Valjean answered her. "_Rêves de Sucre_."

"Dreams of Sugar," Cosette echoed. "That's a good name."

Now in front of the shop, Valjean found that all the candles and oil-lamps were unlit. The door, locked. A handwritten sign on a slate hung at the front window. Setting Cosette down ("Papa, is nobody there? Is the shop closed?") and read aloud:

"_Dearest Valued Customers,_

_Due to an issue within the family, _Rêves de Sucre _will be closed from March 6, 1824 to March 14, 1824. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused. There is a jar of hard candies by the door, as you may have already seen – although we imagine they will disappear rather quickly!_"

Cosette's shoulders slumped. "Oh, _no_. I wanted to go to the shop so badly." She glanced at the small table by the door. Sure enough, there was the jar. Luckily, a small handful of hard candies still remained, each wrapped in a little bit of brown paper. The eight-year-old grabbed two and returned to Valjean. One candy she held out. "For you, Papa."

Valjean closed her small fingers around it. "No, no, Cosette. You must have it for yourself."

Insistently, Cosette shoved it into his palm. "Papa, I took two. One for you and one for myself." She unwrapped her own and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was delicious – hardened sugar with a hint of lemon juice. "It's delicious, Papa!"

Valjean tried to hand the second candy back to her, but when she refused, he chuckled, unwrapped the candy, let it sit on his tongue for a moment before beginning to suck on it. Cosette was right – it was quite good.

"I'm sorry we could not enter the sweets shop today, my Pet," he told her as they began to walk away.

Cosette smiled up at him. "Oh, no. The carriage ride alone was simply splendid. And we _did_ try some of their sweets. It was worth it – every second of it. Will we really be riding in a carriage again?"

"Why, yes."

"Then it was worth it even more."


	6. Birthday

Story 6: Birthday

* * *

**Author's Note: I have no idea when Valjean's birthday is, only the year he was born. (1769). If Hugo mentioned it in the book I've forgotten it or it didn't register, so I made up a date instead. Another thing is that I feel Cosette acts a little bit out of character in this, so sorry about that.**

* * *

_March 12, 1824_

It was evening. Cosette had finished her studies and now sat at the table, drawing pictures on her slate as Valjean prepared dinner. While their meals (outside of desserts) were humble – potatoes and meat and rice – he always went to extremes by making the dish look as inviting and pretty as possible. For instance, he would chop parsley and sprinkle the potatoes with it, as he did now.

He divided the meal onto two plates and carried them to the table. "That is a lovely drawing, dear," Valjean commented as he sat down, "but put it away now while we eat dinner."

"Yes, Papa," she answered, automatically and immediately. She gathered her box of chalk and slate, tucking it under the settee before returning to the table. She took a bite of potatoes and looked up. "They are delicious, Papa."

Valjean chuckled. "Thank you, my darling. And don't forget that there is a little something for dessert."

Cosette clapped her hands together. "Chocolate _religieuse_!"

"That is right."

They were silent for several minutes, until Cosette spoke. "Papa?"

"Yes, precious?"

She looked up. "Papa, when is your birthday?" she asked him.

The question took Valjean completely by surprise. Of all things, he had not expected her to ask him this. It was such an odd thing, and yet, perfectly like her. He cleared his throat and answered honestly, "March the twenty-third."

Cosette gasped. "Papa! That's only eleven days from now! Not even two weeks." She shot to her feet and hurried around the table. She took a very confused Valjean's hands in hers and looked him straight in the eye. "Why, pray tell, did you not mention it sooner? Whatever shall we do to celebrate?"

Valjean pulled one hand free and tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. "Cosette, darling, we needn't celebrate my birthday. I'm far too old for something so frivolous - "

She pouted. "But Papa. It's a _birthday_. How could you not want to celebrate your own birthday?"

"Do you wish to celebrate _yours_?" Valjean challenged her, which he immediately realized was foolish because he knew what the answer would be. What child didn't want to celebrate their birthday.

As he imagined, Cosette stared at him in shock. "Of _course_ I do, Papa! Although…" she trailed off, "I don't believe I've ever celebrated my birthday before. What is it like?"

Valjean, who had not celebrated his birthday in twenty-seven years shook his head. "Cosette, my child. When you are nine years old in November, we shall have the loveliest celebration you could possibly imagine. But I am an old man. I do not need to celebrate my birthday."

She scrutinized him from behind narrowed eyes. "You don't seem to be very old to me."

"I will be fifty-five."

"That isn't old." Cosette returned to her side of the table. Valjean hoped this would mean she had given up, but still she persisted. On the other hand, this was the very first time he had seen her putting up a fight about anything. It was good for her. It meant she was recovering. Cosette went on, "I've known people older than fifty-five in my lifetime. There were many old men who stopped by Monsieur's inn. And besides. Isn't a birthday a birthday? Does being old matter?"

Valjean closed his eyes and sighed heavily, trying to think back to a time when a birthday was the very best thing imaginable. He vaguely recalled the last one he'd celebrated the year before he was sent to prison, but he and Jeanne had been so poor all it had involved was Jeanne and the children singing to him. _Perhaps I could allow myself a small celebration_, a selfish little part of him said, but he shoved it down.

"No, Cosette," he said, gentle but firm. "We will not celebrate my birthday, all right?"

Cosette gave a deep, heavy sigh. "Yes, Papa."

**0o0**

_March 22, 1824_

"…and I suppose we'll take a loaf of the dark baguette as well."

The baker's wife gave him an odd look but she took a small loaf of the dark bread and tucked it neatly into the paper bag. "It doesn't sell very well, _m'sieur_. Mostly my husband and I give it to the poor out of charity at the end of the day."

"Just one loaf, please," Valjean said gently.

He could sense Cosette staring at him rather oddly. He didn't know why he was buying that brown bread. Perhaps it was to make a point. He did not believe in spoiling himself and he wanted to show this to his daughter. She hadn't mentioned his birthday since that first night, but it was due tomorrow and he didn't want her to start bringing it up again now.

"Would you like a chocolate for dessert tonight, _ma petite_ Cosette?" Valjean asked her, ruffling her hair.

She shook her head. "No, thank you, Papa. Not today." She pressed her nose against the glass panel in front of the pastries. "Oh! You sell sugared daisies, Madame?"

The baker's wife smiled fondly. "Why, yes, we do, child. Would you like some?" She looked up at Valjean. "If it's quite all right with your Papa, of course."

"No, thank you," Cosette said politely, pulling back. Then, to Valjean, "I'll get the bread, Papa." She tucked one of the bags under her arm and the pair turned to go. Valjean noticed the way she stopped and set down the bread to stare at the sugared daisies a while longer before hurrying to catch up with her Papa.

"Cosette, my darling, would it be quite all right with you if we stopped in at the butcher's before returning home for your studies?"

Valjean was surprised when Cosette froze at his side and looked at him, eyes wide. "The butcher's, Papa?"

"Yes. I'm afraid we need to buy some meat."

Cosette whimpered and burrowed herself into his chest. "Papa, I don't like it there."

Valjean was taken aback. "Whatever do you mean?"

"The smell of blood. It frightens me." She bowed her head and let out a faint, "Might I - " before cutting herself off and looking away.

"Might you what, my Pet?" Valjean encouraged her.

Cosette bit her lip and eyes him nervously. "Might I wait for you at the baker's?" she whispered. She sounded so terrified of asking this it was all he could do not to sweep her into a hug here in the middle of the road. And most likely be run over by a carriage, too. Valjean stepped aside.

"Cosette…" he began gently. He had no desire to leave his daughter alone at the baker's.

"_Please_, Papa?" she begged. "You know the baker and his wife. They're so very kind, I'm sure they wouldn't mind terribly."

Valjean sighed. He couldn't leave Cosette alone. But he understood her discomfort at entering the butcher's. The past several times they'd been there, she always squirmed and waited by the door. He knew she didn't like it, and he didn't want to force her. Heavens, he wasn't all that fond of it himself. He sighed again. He hadn't imagined raising a child would be so difficult. "Very well, Cosette. If the baker and his wife allow it, you may wait there."

Valjean returned for his daughter only ten minutes later. He found her sitting patiently at one of the tables in the small baker's shop. The bread sat in her lap. She beamed when she saw him and hopped up. "Hello, Papa!"

Valjean chuckled and ruffled her hair. "I trust the baker allowed you to stay, then, my Pet?"

Cosette nodded. "Yes, Papa. He and his wife were very kind to me when I asked to stay." She turned to the baker, who was slicing some new bread and gave him a little nod of gratitude. "Thank you, _monsieur_."

**0o0**

_March 23, 1824_

There were many ways Valjean had woken before in his life. He'd been gently shaken as a child. He was familiar with the crow of a rooster. In Toulon, it was the angry shouts of the officers and prison guards, the rattling of bars at the cell. And In Montreuil-sur-Mer he had grown used to being woken by the sunlight streaming in through his window. Here in Paris, it was the same thing.

Today, his fifty-fifth birthday, marked the day he was woken by a child jumping on his bed.

"Papa! Papa, wake up! Oh, _do_ wake, Papa! It is your birthday today! Wake up, Papa!"

Valjean groaned and cracked open one eye. Cosette was laughing, still jumping up and down. When she saw he was somewhat awake, she bounced off the bed with the mastered agility and grace of a child and took to poking him. "Please, Papa. It's your birthday today."

"Cosette," Valjean said. "Cosette, my child, we've discussed this before - "

"Don't be silly, Papa. You must celebrate your birthday."

Valjean chuckled, dejected, and sat up in bed. "Very well, Cosette. But how, pray tell, will we celebrate?"

Cosette rocked back and forth on her heels. "You'll see, Papa. It's a great surprise, you see, and you shall be so very happy when you see it."

"You planned a surprise for me by yourself?" he asked, stunned. He had not meant to say it aloud, but Cosette turned and shook her head.

"Of course not. How could I do it by myself?"

He nearly leapt out of bed. "You had help? Who? Who helped you? Who have you been speaking to?" The questions tumbled out of his mouth, images of Javert already forming in his mind.

Cosette flinched and shrank back at his risen voice, and it took a bit of coaxing for her to relax again. "Catherine helped me," she whispered. "I … I'm sorry, Papa. I'm sorry I couldn't do it myself."

Valjean relaxed. "No, Cosette. It's fine. You've no idea how grateful I am that you even considered doing something for me. I was only worried you spoke to strangers, that's all, darling."

"I didn't speak to any _strangers_," Cosette answered. She shook her head. "But I asked Catherine and she had the loveliest ideas." She took his hands in hers and rested her head in his lap. Barely above a murmur, she whispered, "Papa, let's go to the baker's. Then we can begin my studies."

Valjean chuckled. "Very well. Although if you desire, you needn't do any work at all today, if it's as special as you insist."

"Of course it's a special day, Papa," Cosette clucked. She rose and straightened her skirts; it took Valjean a moment to realize she was nearly dressed. He shook his head and waved her off to her room to put on her stockings and comb her hair as he dressed. And of course Cosette scuttled off to do as he bid her.

In her room, as she pulled on her stockings, Cosette turned to Catherine, resting against the pillows. "Catherine," she said to the doll, "Catherine, do you think Papa will like the surprise we planned for him? I feel very guilty about lying to him when he asked me about getting help. Do you suppose he'll be angry with me?"

When of course there was no answer, she stood and dragged the brush through her hair. "Well, we'll just have to see."

A minute or so later, Papa was knocking on the door and Cosette opened the door. She looked up at him, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. She was not a very good liar, for she hadn't had very much practice. The few times she'd lied to Madame Thénardier she'd been beaten, and since then the prospect of telling a lie of any kind had terrified her.

But she imagined she must have been doing a good job if it now, (not that she intended to lie at all after this), for Papa smiled and took her hand as he always did. She was quiet on the walk to the bakery, terrified of letting anything slip. And when they were at the baker's, she was sure to distract her Papa as best she could when the baker slipped a small brown box into the bag of bread without his noticing. The baker winked at Cosette, and she smiled.

When Papa was given the bill, Cosette feared he might put forward a complaint – it was higher than it normally was, an entire five _sous_ higher, but Papa said nothing. He paid the price. Cosette carried the bread and as they walked home together, she hummed so he would not ask her if she was all right, why she was being so very quiet.

What Cosette did not realize, was that Valjean _had_ noticed his daughter's odd behavior. She seemed a bit too quiet, sometimes a bit too chipper. He thought nothing of it, decided not to mention it. But he did open his mouth when Cosette offered to put the bread away and ran into the kitchen, the bag clutched a bit too tightly to her chest.

He heard her rummaging through the cupboard and he called, "Cosette? You aren't cutting the bread, are you, my love? I'll do that, I don't want you to cut yourself…"

"I'm not, Papa! Don't come in!"

And when she emerged with a small cake on a dish, his heart burst. She carried it into the sitting room, laying it down on the table, and sang out, "Happy birthday, Papa!"

He stared at the cake before him. Cosette smiled broadly and launched herself into his arms. She said, her small voice muffled by his shirt, "I asked the baker to make it. When you were at the butcher's. It was a surprise." Then, pulling away, she whispered, "I did lie to you, though, Papa. I'm sorry."

"You lied?"

"Yes. I told you I only had help from Catherine, but it was a lie. I asked the baker. I'm sorry." Ashamed, she bowed her head. "I was hoping you might like it."

Valjean took her chin in his hands and raised so that they met eye to eye. "Cosette," he whispered. "No. I'm so very grateful. Thank you." He found he was tearing up, and he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "Thank you, my dear."

Cosette smiled and repeated herself, "Happy birthday, Papa."


	7. What Madame Did

Story 7: What Madame Did

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_**Author's Note: This is a rather dark chapter with mentions of child abuse. Reader descretion is advised.**_

* * *

**0o0**

_April 6, 1824_

* * *

Valjean had observed the way Cosette had been slowly growing more and more trusting of him. She no longer flinched or stiffened at his touch. She no longer called him _monsieur_, as she often had well into March. Her only name for him was _Papa_, as he'd told her to call him on their first night together. Thinking back, he realized that, in those first couple of weeks, she hadn't even really considered him to be her Papa. She was calling him so because she'd been _told_ to. It was not an order he'd meant to give. But then, in her harsh life, almost everything she'd heard had been an order or an insult.

But while she had fully warmed up to him by now, while Cosette trusted her "Papa" wholeheartedly, he knew she was still suffering from nightmares. There was no denying it. In their very first nights together, when he heard her sobbing in her sleep and he hurried to her bedside, she would insist that no, nothing was wrong. She was fine. "You needn't worry, _monsieur_," Cosette would tell him. By February, when he came for her, she would whimper into his chest, "Papa, I had a nightmare," and he'd stroke her hair and tell her that it was all right, that he was here.

"Would you like to come sleep with me tonight?" he'd soothe her. "Would you like to come and stay with Papa?"

"If … if I may," Cosette would answer him every time.

"Of course, dear. Of course you may. Come. There is nothing to fear."

He never asked her what her nightmares were about, and she never told him what happened, in those dark corners of her subconscious. He supposed he _knew_ what they were about. He understood that his little girl was subject to forms of near torture, even now, in the pampered, sheltered life they led.

There were some nights, however, when he came to comfort her, hearing her muffled sobs, that she tried to wipe her tears. That she plastered a smile onto her face. "Oh, it's nothing." "I'm fine, Papa." "Oh, Papa, don't worry about me, I'm quite all right. A noise outside startled me, that's all, and it woke me. It must have been a carriage."

He would stroke her forehead gently, then pull his hand away. "You're perspiring. Are you sure you're all right, darling?"

"Yes, Papa. I told you, the carriage startled me."

And every time Valjean would encourage her, she'd remain tight-lipped, until at last he would lie her back down and tuck the blankets around her little body, bidding her a good night and praying her nightmares wouldn't come back to haunt her again, at least not tonight.

But on the night between the fifth and sixth of April, something changed.

Valjean had been sleeping when he heard a small, frightened cry from his daughter's bedroom. "_Papa_!" Startled, the man sat bolt upright in bed. Swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, he gave a hesitant call.

"Cosette?"

"Papa!" she cried, and she sounded so close to tears he knew what the matter was. Valjean jumped up and all but tore down the corridor into his daughter's bedroom. Whipping open the door, he saw her by the faint slivers of moonlight, caught in a tangle of blankets and sitting up in bed.

"Cosette." He came to her bedside and pulled her close to him, into his chest. Cosette wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her nose in his chest. Her shoulders began to shake with sobs.

"Cosette," he repeated. "Cosette, my child, what is the matter? What happened? Did you have a nightmare?"

She pulled away but didn't let go of his hands. "Yes…" she said slowly. "I did. It was frightening. I was so afraid."

"That's all right," he crooned. He was stroking her hair, whispering words of comfort into her ear. "There's nothing to be afraid of now. Papa's here. Papa will keep you safe."

She allowed him to hold her, sitting still as the tears continued flowing. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, but they came on, an endless torrent that wetted the front of her nightgown. At last, her small voice whispered, "Papa?"

"Yes, sweetness?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No, Cosette, no, my sweetness," he lied. "Papa couldn't fall asleep himself. I was trying to fall sleep but I couldn't." He gave a wry chuckle.

Cosette gave a little sigh of relief. "Oh, good. I didn't want to wake you."

"You needn't worry, _ma fille précieuse_. You did not."

"Good, good, that's very good…" Cosette began to whisper to herself. The scrawny eight-year-old began to rock back and forth, her blue eyes staring straight ahead. Valjean reached over, turning on the oil-lamp to a dim orange glow. In this lighting, the bony angles to Cosette's little body stood out more than ever, gave her a ghostly kind of look.

"_Mon ange_," Valjean crooned. "What happened in your nightmare? What was it about?"

Cosette stopped her rocking and turned to look at him. The images of her dark dreams flashed in her mind, haunting her, overtaking her. She saw Madame, and Monsieur, and 'Ponine, and 'Zelma, as she called them. She could feel Madame's angry blows, that final harsh slap across her face. She heard Madame's furious cry on that last night just four months ago. "_Enough of that! Or I'll forget to be nice_!" And then, just as she had so many times before, she shut them out. Pushed them away into a part of her mind where memories lay, abandoned and forgotten, as if they had never existed.

"I…" Cosette said slowly. "It was a nightmare."

Valjean closed his eyes. He considered letting it go, of smiling and kissing her good night. But he knew that the next night, and the night after that, the dark dreams would return. Harsh memories would return to haunt her, healing wounds ripped open once more. _Perhaps …_ he shook his head, then reconsidered. _Perhaps if she were to tell me, to speak, the heavy weight would be lifted off her shoulders. Perhaps if she were to tell everything now she will be freed of her miseries. _

But it would pain her to tell him, to speak of the horrors she had suffered through for six terrible years.

_It will only pain her more if those memories come back to haunt her_.

And so, much as it pained him, he stroked her hair and shook his head. "I know, Cosette. But tell me, what was your nightmare about? What made it so dreadful? You can tell Papa, now, come on."

Cosette squirmed. At last, she murmured, "Well … Madame was there. And Monsieur. I was back at the inn." She looked up. "It was dreadful."

"I know. I know, sugar, I know. But don't worry. Don't worry, sugar. They won't be back for you. Papa is here. Papa will keep you safe."

"Madame did bad things," Cosette went on. "So many bad, bad things."

And he was stroking her hair, still whispering softly into her ear, "I know, I know. I know, my Pet, I know. Why don't you tell Papa?"

She looked up at him, her blue eyes brimming with tears. "Must I?" she asked softly.

Valjean pressed his lips against her temple. "Oh no, my child, of course not. Not if you do not wish to." He paused and leaned forward. "But perhaps if you spoke, it would put you at ease. However, it is your choice."

Cosette leaned back against the pillows. "All right. I'll tell you … a little bit."

"All right. Tell as much as you wish."

Cosette fluffed her pillows and took a deep breath. "Madame was in my dream. Madame and Monsieur. And I was at the inn. Madame was yelling at me and Monsieur was sleeping at the table. He was a bit drunk and Madame told me to clean him up, for he'd vomited all over the front of his suit. So I went and took a damp cloth and began to clean his chin, where the vomit was in his beard. And I managed to clean his face without his waking. But when I started to clean Monsieur's suit, he woke and shouted at me." She shuddered and pressed in against her Papa's side.

"He called me a wicked girl, a useless little brat. And then he hit me. He hit me terribly hard, for my nose began to bleed. And I didn't want the blood to get on the floors so I ran outside to pinch my nose and clean up the blood. Only…it was snowing outside and I was so very cold. And then Madame found me.

"Madame hit me too, with the handle of the broom. She told me to go and muck the stables, and even though it was frightfully cold out, I did as she bid me. I didn't want to do it in the cold, when it was so very dark out, but I knew she'd hit me again if I didn't do it."

Cosette took a deep breath. "That was only in my dream. I believe it really did happen once, a long time ago."

Valjean drew in a breath. The terrible thing was, he could imagine the Thénrdiers doing just that, and things much worse than what they'd done in Cosette's dream. He exhaled, one long shaky note. "It's all right, Cosette. Papa's here now."

Cosette seemed not to hear him. "I woke after that, but I fell back asleep and then I had other dreams," she said slowly.

"What dreams? You may tell me, if you wish."

"Well, I was at the inn again. It's always the inn, you know, and always Madame and Monsieur. Sometimes, I see 'Ponine and 'Zelma. They're always playing and I'm always working. I normally see the other children once or twice every night. Most of the time, though, it's only Madame."

Valjean nodded. Guilt prickled at his very soul – perhaps this was too much. Perhaps he had been wrong to force Cosette to relive her nightmares. But he gently encouraged her. "You mean there have been other dreams like these, Cosette? At the inn?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes. Nearly every night. They've been much worse, too. Sometimes, they're so terrible that I cannot fall back asleep and I stay up crying. In some of my dreams, there is only Madame. And she's hitting me with the strap, yelling at me. All sorts of terrible things."

Valjean nodded again. "I see. Now, if you don't want to say anymore, that's quite all right."

Cosette breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh. That's good. Though I suppose it _did_ feel a bit better to speak about it. I didn't think it would, but it did." She snuggled into his chest. "I shouldn't like to talk about my dreams again, though."

"Of course."

Cosette leaned back against the pillows once more. "I'm sleepy now, Papa."

"Would you like to come and sleep with me?"

Her eyes widened. "Really? Could I?"

Valjean smiled. "Yes, of course. Come, Cosette. Papa will keep you safe." He picked her up and she rested her head against his shoulders, closing her eyes. By the time he'd awkwardly gathered Catherine and carried both child and doll to his bedroom, Cosette had fallen back asleep. He lay down next to her and tucked the blankets around her little body. He slipped Catherine under the crook of her arm and shut his eyes.

Neither father nor daughter knew this right now, but it was the last time Cosette would dream of her times in Montfermeil. The last time the Thénardiers would come back to haunt her in her dreams. But she would never really be able to forget. Had she been younger, she might have, but at eight years old, her suffering had gone on much too long to be forgotten completely.

Sometimes, Cosette would think of her times in the inn. But when she did, she would never tell her Papa. These memories would come to her less and less until, eventually, she would not think of them at all.

But at present, Valjean lay awake, thinking. Absently stroking his sleeping daughter's hair, he reflected,

_She has told me of her past. But I know I shall never be able to truly tell her of mine. Dearest Cosette, you don't know of the demons that haunt your Papa at night. You've no way of knowing, and you never shall._


	8. Fragile Beauty

Story 8: Fragile Beauty

* * *

_Disclaimer: This story was inspired by "Funeral for a Lark" by Deep Forest Green. _

**Author's Note: I've been having some trouble coming up with ideas for this story lately. I only have one more idea, and that's for the next chapter. After that, I don't know. If you have any ideas or requests, feel free to run them by me, just keep them T-rated or less, please. **

**Another note. This chapter contains a few small controversial religious statements. I mean no disrespect to anybody's religious beliefs in any way. Thank you.**

* * *

_April 19, 1824_

* * *

**0o0**

Valjean didn't know it, but while Cosette's nightmares had ceased, she still often thought of her terrible times with the Thénardiers. However, the child remained silent on the matter. She didn't want to worry her Papa.

But sometimes, very late at night, Cosette would whisper to Catherine. She told her precious doll of all the terrible things that happened, and even though there was never an answer from her beautiful doll, she still found comfort in it. In _speaking_ about it. She didn't want to tell Papa. Papa would try to comfort her, and while normally there was nothing Cosette loved more than to sit in his lap while he stroked her hair, her past was something she wanted to keep to herself.

"Did you know, Catherine," Cosette breathed once, "that I had a little doll when I was living with Madame and Monsieur? She was but a few knotted rags, but she was all I had and I loved her dearly. Her name was Nöelle. I kept her hidden amongst the old rags where I slept under the stairs, you see. One day, Madame found her. She shouted and beat me and…" Cosette hugged her knees, to her chest, "…she threw Nöelle in the fire. I never made another doll. I was sure that if I did, Madame would only find it and burn it again."

One night, she told Catherine of one of her worst experiences. "It must have been about a year before Papa came for me. I was cleaning the fireplace and it was wintertime; I was so very cold. Madame came and kicked me in the back so that I fell into the chimney amid all the soot. And then, she shouted at me to work faster. I climbed from the chimney and I said to her, 'Yes, Madame. It's just that I'm terribly cold,' and she told me I had quite some gall for a little swine like me. She took me by the hair and dragged me outside. She beat me with the end of a broom and left me in the snow. 'Ponine and 'Zelma were playing outside. They laughed at me and out snow down my back. And when I began to cry, they ran to tell Madame and she screamed at me, telling me to pick myself up and go finish cleaning the chimney. I was so afraid of her that I did as she bid me. I was sore for days afterwards, but I still had to work."

Another night, she recalled something that had happened to her in her earliest times with Madame and Monsieur. "I believe I must have been very small, perhaps but three or four years of age. I was already working, but I had a friend. You see, Catherine, Madame and Monsieur had a dog. I've forgotten his name now, but he used to follow me wherever I went and sometimes, he would sleep with me and keep me warm. He died, though. I don't remember why or how. I imagine he was old. I'd never known a soul who'd died before that, and I suppose the dog was the first. Now I know my Maman as well. You know, Catherine, it's funny that we forget those who are dear to us after they're gone. "

Nearly every night went on like this. Nearly every night, Cosette would tell Catherine a story. And every night, Valjean had no idea of the horrors his small daughter recounted. Her tale of having to clean the vomit from the beard of a drunken Thénardier were the better of her experiences.

And why should he even imagine that she might be telling anyone – even a doll – of her past? Why would he consider it? While a quiet child, Cosette was still such a bubbly little girl.

His little girl.

**0o0**

"Papa, come here, quickly!" He heard her distressed cry and shot to his feet.

"Cosette?"

"Papa! Papa, come look!"

Cosette was in her bedroom, standing by the window. She'd woken as she did every morning. It had grown rather warm these past several days and she had opened the window. To her horror, she'd found a small butterfly on her sill, very beautiful and very dead. She'd taken the small creature in her hands and held it up, gaping in horror. The butterfly's wings were a light shade of blue, speckled in flecks of turquoise.

Valjean burst in to see his child sitting on the floor, cradling something in her palms. "Cosette, my child, whatever is the matter?"

"Look," Cosette repeated. She held out something cupped in her hands.

Valjean bent down to see a small dead butterfly. "Oh, dear," he said, unsure how to react.

"It was on the window sill when I woke up," Cosette informed him sadly. "It's dead, isn't it?"

"Yes, I believe so."

Cosette's eyes brimmed with tears. "Oh, Papa. Can't we save it?"

Valjean stroked her hair. "I'm afraid not, my Pet."

To his horror, Cosette began to cry harder. "The poor creature! Whatever did it do to deserve to die? Papa, it was so beautiful." Sniffling, she stroked the butterfly's wing with one hesitant finger.

Valjean took the butterfly carefully and placed it on the windowsill, ignoring a "Don't crush it!" from Cosette.

"_Mon amour_," he began gently, gathering the little eight-year-old in his lap, "listen to me. Listen to Papa closely."

Cosette wiped away her tears with the heel of her hand and nodded, blue eyes looking up at him trustingly.

Valjean took a deep breath. "It was a beautiful butterfly," he began awkwardly. "But it died because God decided it was its time to die. It did no wrong, and it was, after all, only a butterfly."

"Does God control _everything_?" Cosette asked skeptically.

Valjean chuckled. "Yes, of course, Cosette."

"Absolutely everything? Even the butterflies?"

"Even the butterflies."

Cosette crawled off of his lap and murmured, "Well, He doesn't do a very good job of it, if He allows suffering to go on in this world."

Valjean knew he ought to scold Cosette for saying such things, but now wasn't the time. Instead, he coaxed, "Why don't you get dressed – "

"Papa?" Cosette interrupted.

"Yes, Cosette?"

"Papa…" Cosette returned to the windowsill and stared at the small butterfly. "…before my lessons, might we bury the poor thing? Give it a proper funeral?"

Valjean was surprised. "Oh – very well. I'll bury it in the flowers."

"No," Cosette argued. "I want to be able to visit its grave. It must have a proper funeral, with prayers and a headstone and a grave."

Valjean sighed. The idea of giving a butterfly a funeral was ludicrous, but he could hardly say no to his child. "All right," he said, somewhat vehemently. "Why don't you get dressed and we shall bury the butterfly in the garden?"

"Yes, Papa," Cosette said automatically, choosing a dress from her wardrobe and ducked behind the dressing screen. Valjean stood, carefully gathered the butterfly in his handkerchief, and exited the bedroom.

As he searched for a proper "coffin", he considered his situation. Perhaps it wasn't so terribly silly to bury a dead butterfly. After all, people were buried. Cats and dogs were sometimes buried. Valjean remembered, when he and Jeanne were children, they'd had a dog named _Chocolat_ who had died. He and his sister had buried the animal in the woods and said a small prayer. And who was to say that a butterfly was worth less than a cat or dog? Or a human, for that matter.

Valjean eventually found a rather small, empty wooden box that had once held several buttons from his old overcoat. He couldn't possibly imagine why he might have the old box, so he gently dropped the butterfly inside of it just as Cosette emerged, clad in a black dress and bonnet.

"I see you're dressed in mourning clothes," Valjean noted as she came over.

"Only for today," she answered calmly. "Oh – what a perfect coffin. Thank you, Papa."

Valjean took her hand. "Come," he said. "Let us go to the garden."

They found a spot near the stone bench in the front garden. Using a small spade, Cosette dug a hole and Valjean placed the little box inside of it. He kneeled before the grave and closed his eyes.

"What sort of prayer shall we say?" Cosette wanted to know.

Valjean put his arm around his daughter. "A proper one. Allow me to start…"

He uttered a small prayer, his head bowed and his hands clasped together. Cosette, ever the obedient one, followed his lead. Her words were a soft whisper, trembling with emotion. How much she felt for a butterfly and yet how she treated her own past with such nonchalance. It seemed remarkable to Valjean.

"Dear Lord," he began awkwardly, "Please look after this butterfly. Please bless the soul of … Your creature. Amen."

Cosette looked up, pleased. "Do let me say a prayer too. Please, Papa? Might I?" She squirmed, uncomfortable at the prospect of asking something from her Papa. She knew that he would never hurt her or do anything that would put her in harm's way. But she was not used to getting what she wanted, what she liked and longed for. And somewhere deep down, there was an instinctive fear of her Papa. She may not have been used to happiness and being spoiled, but she was well accustomed to fear and pain.

"Of course you may, _ma petite_ Cosette," Valjean answered her.

"Really?" she asked. "All right." Hands still clasped in prayer, Cosette began, "Dear Lord, please allow this bird to find happiness. Let it find joy in its afterlife, if there is one. I do not know if its life was warm and good or cold and dark, but either way please let it be happy. In Your world, so many creatures and people suffer. I hope that you will let them find happiness in Heaven. People like the poor beggars that I sometimes saw outside the inn, or the ladies wearing the short, torn gowns in the streets, by the docks. People like them. Bless their souls, and that of this butterfly. Amen." She looked to Valjean for approval, who nodded.

Valjean covered the little box in dirt and placed a small stone from the garden over the grave. "There," he said, "that shall be its headstone."

"Yes, Papa," said Cosette. She turned to pluck a single rose from the garden and placed it over the grave. "There," she said softly. "They suit it."

"That was a very nice prayer," Valjean complimented her as they began to walk to the baker's."

"Thank you, Papa. Do you suppose He heard it? God, I mean."

"I imagine so."

Cosette turned her head to the sky as they walked, her eyes fixed on the clouds. It was almost as though she were looking for a response that never came.


	9. Make The Flowers Grow

Story 9: Make The Flowers Grow

**Brief author's note: This is the last original idea of mine. The next two chapters both come from suggestions my reviewers gave last chapter. Please, if anyone has any more, tell me. I'd be happy to use them, just keep them T-rated or below please.**

_May 1, 1824_

"Very good, Cosette. I don't see a single mistake." Valjean sat back in his armchair, skimming the slate of subtraction problems his daughter has just filled out. It was still early in the morning, but Cosette had insisted on starting early.

Now the eight-year-old girl beamed broadly. "Really, Papa? Not one?"

Valjean chuckled. "No, my child, not one."

"Oh, thank you, Papa!" she exclaimed, and to his surprise, she threw her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you so very much."

This bewildered Valjean. "Thank you? Thank you for what, pray tell?" he asked of her, frowning.

Cosette stepped away and looked her Papa in the eye. "For…for teaching me. For teaching me how to subtract so I wouldn't make any mistakes." She took a step back and repeated herself. "Thank you."

Valjean chuckled and kissed the crown of her head. "You are very welcome, my Pet. Now, why don't you run along and play?"

"Yes, Papa." Obediently, the eight-year-old skipped off to her bedroom. She sat down on her bed and picked up Catherine. "Would you like to play, Catherine? I hope you would, else I'll be very lonely. You see, Papa doesn't like to play very much."

Taking the doll's head between her fingers, she made it nod. Cosette smiled. "Excellent, then I believe that's settled. I'm sure the wooden animals would like to play too. Let's pretend, Catherine, that you and I are Princess and Queen of a little village full of animals. And an evil India-rubber ball from a terrible kingdom is planning to attack the village, and we must stop it!" Giggling at the thought of an evil India-rubber ball, Cosette set Catherine on her desk, reached over to grab her India-rubber ball. "We shall be Princess and Queen, you and I…"

Meanwhile, Valjean had taken Cosette's slate and was reading it over again. However, this time he noticed a mistake. What he had first misread to be a two in her childish scrawl was in fact a backwards five. She was always having trouble remembering to write her fives the right way around.

He considered calling her, asking her to rewrite the question, fix her mistake. But just as he opened his mouth he recalled her little face upon being told that she'd had a perfect score. How _happy_ she had been. Could he really shatter that joy, that pride? She'd be so very upset.

No, he concluded. No, he would let it be. He'd correct her some other time. For now he'd let her believe she really had done perfectly.

Valjean sat back and opened the book he had been reading. He'd stopped by the bookseller's with Cosette the other week. For her he'd bought a French translation of Grimm's Fairy Tales. The child had meekly approached him and shown him the book. He'd agreed to buy it for her, of course, though he imagined she'd be in for a nasty surprise once she began to read it.

For himself he'd chosen a large edition of Shakespeare's plays. Valjean had never read Shakespeare before; had never had any time, but he imagined that in this quiet new life he would have plenty of time and so he flipped through the pages, losing himself to the world of _Julius Caesar. _

His reading was interrupted quite suddenly, however, to a knocking on the door. At once he tensed, but when he heard the landlord's calls, "You are there, aren't you, Monsieur?" he relaxed, if only a little bit, and set down his reading, heading to open the door.

Sure enough, there stood the landlord, looking rather awkward and apologetic. "Good day, m'sieur."

"Good day, Monsieur," Valjean said with a nod. He didn't _see_ any police inspectors beyond the doorway, but that didn't mean they weren't waiting outside. "How may I help you?"

"Well…" the elderly landlord shuffled his feet, "I could not help but notice you and your child were inside today. It struck me as rather odd. I was surprised."

"Oh? How so?"

"It struck me as rather odd because it's May Day today. The Maypole has been set up in the Jardin du Luxembourg for at least a few hours. Surely the child would like to go and make a plate?"

"May Day?" Valjean repeated, and then it struck him. Of course, today was May first. May Day. And of course all of Paris would be attending the celebrations. He might draw attention to himself if he went, but then, it would be terribly crowded. And what were the odds that Cosette had been to a May Day celebration? She deserved to experience one, to enjoy herself. "Ah, yes. Of course. Well, I'll ask my daughter if she'd like to go."

Valjean took a deep breath, then called out to her: "Cosette! Could you come here, please, my dear?"

At once, the little girl cried, "I'm coming, Papa!" He heard her open her bedroom door.

The landlord chuckled. "She's an obedient one, isn't she? Why, when my children were her age they wouldn't listen to a word I said."

Valjean smiled fondly as Cosette appeared. Timidly, she wrapped her arms around his waist and tried to hide behind him. Valjean pulled her in front of him gently and placed one hand on her shoulder, the other on her head, stroking her hair. "Yes. She's a good little girl."

The landlord gave her a fond smile himself. "Hello there."

Cosette stared up at him bashfully. "Hello," she said at last, in a rather small voice.

"Now then." Valjean bent down and placed his hands on her shoulders so that he was at eye level with his daughter. "Cosette, darling. Would you like to go to the May Day festival today and make a plate at the Maypole?"

To his and most certainly the landlord's surprise, Cosette cocked her head to one side and asked curiously, "Papa, what is May Day?"

"Well," Valjean explained gently, "May Day is the celebration of the first of May."

Cosette nodded in understanding. "Oh. But what is so very special about the first of May?"

Valjean paused, then chuckled. "You know, I can't say I'm certain, but I believe it symbolizes the birth of springtime." He looked to the landlord, who only shrugged.

"Anyhow," Valjean continued. "Would you like that, darling?"

Cosette nodded. "Oh, _yes_, Papa."

"Then it's settled." Valjean said with a smile. "Run along and put on your bonnet. Let's be on our way."

"Yes, Papa!" Cosette chirped. She turned and took off down the hall.

Valjean turned to the landlord. "Thank you," he said at last, somewhat awkwardly.

The landlord offered a slight nod. "My pleasure, _m'sieur._" Another nod, and he turned around, heading back up the stairs. He was a friendly sort. Valjean had not exchanged words with him many times, only thrice if one counted today. But he was always very polite to the strange man and his little girl.

Cosette reappeared, sporting her usual bonnet. She held Catherine, tucked under one arm. The young girl smiled and looked up at Valjean. "To the May Day festival, then?"

Valjean bent down, taking her under the arms, swooping her up and onto his shoulders. She laughed in delight – she loved riding on her Papa's shoulders. As they made their way out of the building, Valjean answered her. "Yes, Cosette, my dear child. To the May Day festival."

**0o0**

Valjean had been seated on the grass with his Shakespeare novel as Cosette played at the Maypole. Catherine lay next to him. Of course, he couldn't really concentrate on the Bard's words. He half-read, half-watched as his daughter ran about in circles, ducking under ribbons and falling onto the grass. She was happy and carefree, as a child ought to be.

At long last, Cosette arrived, giggling and panting slightly, by his side. Her bonnet had been knocked askew and her hair was in a mess. The hem of her gown was soiled with grass stains, and yet she either did not notice or did not care.

Valjean set his reading aside. "There you are, my sweetness. Did you enjoy yourself?"

The child collapsed by his side and rested her head in his lap. Valjean removed her bonnet and placed it next to Catherine. At last, Cosette responded levelly, "Oh, yes, Papa, I did. I made a perfect plate with some of the other children. It was very nice. I don't believe I've ever played with other children before."

Valjean sat her up and placed her bonnet back on her head, tying the strings under her chin for her. "No?"

"No. At least, I don't remember doing so."

"Well, you have now. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

Cosette nodded. "It was so very lovely."

They sat side by side on the green turf for several moments. Cosette began to pick at the grass, taking little blades and tearing them from the earth in an absent-minded fashion. Then she stopped and took Catherine, rocking her ever so gently, stroking the beautiful doll's dark locks of hair.

Valjean shattered the peaceful silence. "Would you like to go home now, or would you rather stay here for a while longer?"

Without taking her eyes away from Catherine, the little girl answered, "Whatever you should like, Papa."

Valjean tweaked her nose teasingly, making her yelp in delight and swat his hand away. "My dearest Cosette, what I should like is for you to choose."

Cosette lifted a shoulder. "Might we go for a stroll down the main avenues before returning home?"

"Of course." Rising to his feet, Valjean offered his hand. Cosette took it, allowing him to help her up. Hand in hand, the unlikely pair began to walk down the path.

They stopped at the bakery, where Valjean bought two croissants, and they ate them as they walked. It was poor conduct for one to eat while walking, but neither father nor daughter cared at the moment.

As they polished off the last crumbs of croissant, Cosette stopped rather suddenly. She had noticed a girl, a bit older than she, dressed in rags and huddled on the corner. The poor girl's dress was much too small and her worn skirts revealed bare, bony ankles. Why, the child didn't even have stockings.

Valjean followed her gaze and, without thinking, his hand slipped from Cosette's and into his pocket. He produced his wallet and pulled out a twenty-_sous_ piece. He approached the girl, with Cosette following closely behind, and gently tapped her shoulder. "Mademoiselle?"

She raised her head and he saw that she couldn't be much older than ten or eleven years old. She caught sight of the glinting coin and held out a shaking palm. Valjean pressed the twenty-_sous_ piece into her hand and closed her fingers around it. "For you, mademoiselle."

The girl smiled shakily and let out a weak, "Thank you, monsieur." Then she reached behind her and offered a single pink flower. "For you. I have been selling them."

Valjean tried to refuse, but the young girl persisted and at last he resigned and took it. He thanked the girl and went on with Cosette. When they arrived home, it had grown rather dark.

Valjean set the rose down on the table and Cosette rocked back and forth nervously. "Papa? Shall I put it in a vase?"

Valjean looked up. "We haven't any water."

"Then I shall go fetch some."

"It's dark."

"Oh, that's all right. I don't mind terribly."

Valjean smiled. "All right, then. We wouldn't want the rose to wilt."

Cosette placed Catherine on a chair and took the small pail from the kitchen. She drew some water from the well in the garden and returned.

Valjean was already fixing a late dinner as she carefully poured the water into an empty vase and placed the single rose inside of it. The vase sat in the center of the table and Cosette couldn't help but stare at it as she turned on the oil-lamp. Their home was a simple, humble little place and in truth, there was very little beauty in it outside of her bedroom with its toys and brightly colored dresses in the armoire. To her, the rose was a rare piece of beauty that seemed almost out of place.

Over dinner that night, Cosette told her Papa every single little detail of her playing at the Maypole. Valjean chuckled at her animated, excited descriptions. But just as she was finishing up the last of her potatoes, Cosette suddenly said, "Papa, isn't the rose pretty?"

Valjean glanced at the single rose. "Why, yes, it's rather pretty."

"I'd like it if we could have more roses."

"We've roses growing in the garden," replied Valjean.

Cosette shrugged. "Yes, I know. I'd like some in the house, but I don't want to cut them. Then they die, and they'll wilt."

Valjean began to gather the plates and ruffled her hair. "All roses wilt in their time, sugar."

"Yes, but it makes me feel terribly sorry for them. I want the flowers to grow."

Valjean set down the plates and sat back down, patting his lap. Obediently, Cosette hurried over and sat down. "Cosette, my lamb, it's springtime, is it not?"

She nodded. "It is. That's why we celebrated at the Maypole."

"That's right. And the spring is a time for little flowers to grow." He scooped her up and spun her in the air. And when she laughed, he found himself wishing that she would be one little flower that would never, ever grow up.


End file.
